


When The Abyss Gazes Back

by Rae (IAmTheRainbowSheep)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Angst and Feels, Beta Wanted, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel and Mental Health Issues, Dean and Mental Health Issues, Depression, Doctor Crowley, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, In Need of Beta- Inbox me!, Love at First Sight, M/M, Medical Patient Castiel, Medical Patient Dean, Medical Patient Dean Winchester, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mute Dean Winchester, Nurse Meg Masters, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Tragic Romance, Triggers, Trust Issues, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:47:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8564629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTheRainbowSheep/pseuds/Rae
Summary: Castiel Novak has been inside of the same teal walls, wandering like a ghost as the doctors try to reel him back in, for a year. Cue Dean Winchester, a green-eyed boy with his own haunted past that doesn't really talk, inside of a psychiatric ward for the first time, and something sparks between these two broken men. Two inseparable men fight to find their way back into each other's arms as life and circumstance threaten to tear them apart, finding love in a place that sucks it right out, and they have to learn that you need to save yourself before anyone else. Can their tragedies be worn as armor, rather than the shackles they've been for so long?





	1. Say That You Need Me and I'll Fly Home

Castiel sat at the table with the tray of food in front of him, just staring at it as it glared back at him. Chatter and footsteps made him look to his right, to see a man coming, dressed in the usual blue robes they gave the new patients from the emergency room. “Meg,” he whispered to his personal nurse, who turned to look at what her charge was looking at, and smiled when she saw the man. “Who is he?”

  
“That's Dean Winchester,” Meg drawled, looking back down at the magazine she'd bought at the gift shop on the ground level. “He's the newest addition, in for long-term, probably. Pain in the ass to every doctor he's met so far is what I heard.”

  
Castiel couldn't tear his eyes from the younger man, wondering what could be wrong with this seemingly perfect man. He had a bright smile, clean hair, white teeth, and no visible scars on his arms. “Why is he here?”

“Confidentiality contract, Clarence, you know this already.” Meg sighed, looking up at the man again, and wanted to groan when her radio started up.

  
“Meg, come to the bubble immediately,” the fuzzy voice on the other end called frantically, even though they tried to sound nonchalant and professional. “There's a situation that came up.” Sighing, Meg got up, and upon making sure that someone was watching her charge, rushed off to the bubble.

  
Dean looked around the ward, eyeing each face in an attempt to see who was dangerous and crazier than most. Well, we're all a bit mad here, he thought glumly, remembering that quote from a movie or something. His eyes met Castiel's blue ones that stared back at him, and he gave a small wave and smile at the smaller man. Castiel immediately averted his eyes to the food in front of him, and Dean couldn't help the bitter feeling in his chest. Of course the man would be wary of strangers, who knew how long he'd been in this nuthouse?

  
“Winchester, what's the number on your ID bracelet? It helps me make sure you're you,” a woman smiled at him, and Dean saw her own badge say her name was Missouri. Fumbling to see the numbers, he wanted to break something when he saw them: 111983. His mother died on November, 1983, when he was about four, maybe five. “Oh, crap!” She looked at him, remembering his lack of speech, gently taking his wrist to inspect it. He was rewarded with a false smile and a tray of food that almost fell from his trembling hands, before being waved away. “Easy, now.”

  
He looked through the tables again, seeing that most of the people looked like they would break him in half like a Popsicle stick. There was a man at the end of the “cafeteria”, though, who looked hardly more than a boy, the same one he'd made eye contact with earlier. With a deep breath, he walked up to him and smiled, pulling out a sheet of paper and scribbling out something before handing it to Castiel: _'Is this seat taken?'_

  
Castiel looked up at the movement and was broken from his reverie as he quickly shook his head. “These seats are free. I'm not good with people,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He sucked with people, in all honesty, and some days he hated himself, and others he hated everyone else.

  
_'I'll be the judge of that,'_ Dean wrote back, grinning as he took his seat, back aching as he did. _'I'm Dean, what's your name?'_

  
“Castiel. Novak. Castiel Novak,” Castiel stammered, before taking a deep breath. “It's nice to meet you, Dean.” Dean smiled at him kindly, and Castiel felt his neck warm up at the look free of malice and disgust, unlike the looks he received most days. Still, nothing pressed on him more than the question of _why_ Dean was here, in the  _Psychiatric Ward_ with _him_. And why Dean didn't speak, only wrote on the pad of paper he carried around with him. “May... I ask you a question, Dean?”

  
_'Shoot.'_ Dean ate like he hadn't eaten in days, Castiel noted, but there didn't seem to be an eating disorder, just hunger. There seemed to be nothing wrong with the man, nothing that Castiel could see. and even his behavior was normal, and it was... intriguing, to say the least.

  
Castiel nodded, waiting a moment as he thought about the way to phrase his question. _How does one ask another person why they are being regarded as mentally unwell?_ “What brought you here?”

  
There was a stretch of silence as Dean chewed his burrito thoroughly, before he swallowed and looked at Castiel solemnly. Tense silence kept beating on as they stared at each other, as if able to read the others' mind. Dean sighed, fiddling with his necklace, before breaking eye contact. _'Something ugly happened a bunch of years ago, and I guess it just cracked my psyche wide open. God, what isn't wrong with me, at this point? Anger's the biggest thing on the list right now. What about you? What type of mumbo jumbo doctor talk did they slap on your name?'_

  
Dean eyed Castiel with tired but open eyes, as if he was just trying to reach out and have someone take his hand. Castiel looked away, shame covering his entire face as he regretted asking. Everything always backfired on him. Dammit. “Dr. Harvelle said that-”

  
“ _Cas_ tiel!” Meg called from down the hall, gesturing for Castiel to follow, which he did, leaving behind a confused Dean as he watched Castiel being led to a different wing.

“He's a mystery, Novak,” a burly man with a short beard told Dean, a strong accent on his voice. “The name's Benny, and Novak has been here longer than anybody else. Longer than some of the nurses, I think,” Benny laughed, shaking his head as he stood to put his tray away.

  
Meg turned to Castiel, who shuffled around anxiously, fiddling with the edges of the worn trench-coat he'd always had since he arrived. How it had survived all those times he'd had to be restrained without being ripped to shreds, only God knows. “It's time for your happy pills, you're getting all antsy again.”

  
“I do not require medication, Meg, I am fine.” Castiel looked into Meg's eyes, an unwavering look in his eyes as he did. Meg didn't bat an eye, merely smiling and shaking her head.

  
“I know, Clarence, but you know the rules.” She led him by the arm to the nurse's station, sitting him down on the chair. “You don't want me to lose my job, do you?”

  
Castiel sighed, shaking his head as he watched Meg preparing his meds, pulling out a clear plastic cup with 1 ½ pills, and a paper cup with cold water to help him swallow down the pills. Resigned, he downed them in one go, used to the bitter aftertaste it left that he could never fully wash out. “Come on, you could still finish your breakfast if you're fast.”

  
And so they walked back to the cafeteria- it was hardly one, it had 4 tables with 4 chairs each- and he found his place across from Dean once more. Dean smiled and gave a small wave. _'Hey, Cas.'_

“Hello, Dean.”

They shared another look, and Castiel wondered what the other man saw when he'd looked into his eyes. Did he see the pain, the exhaustion, the scars? And Dean wondered about Castiel in his own mind. Did Castiel see the bitter cynicism, the weariness, the drunken nights he'd break down? No other words were said, and in a way, nothing needed to be said. Silence spoke loud enough for them as they continued on in their business as if the other had always been there.

“Winchester, you're in Group A, Castiel here would show you the way,” Missouri told Dean, who immediately turned to flash a smile at Castiel. Ellen didn't miss the small smile that spread on Castiel's face, and she had to work to hide her surprise and joy at the little exchange. Maybe there was hope for Castiel yet. Maybe he would actually be able to be released instead of just written off to another hospital in another city or state. And maybe he could help Dean in the process.

  
' _That's great, that I'm in your group.'_ Dean grinned, and Ellen gave them both a smile before walking off to the Bubble. _'You ready?'_

  
“Uh huh,” Castiel wiped his mouth with a napkin before standing and gesturing for Dean to follow him. “Group A is for the youngest of us, 19 to 24, usually, but there are some exceptions. There are three groups, Group B is for 25 to 30, and after that, they get sent to another place.”

  
_'How old are you?'_ Dean found himself asking, if only to keep the conversation going as they walked through the halls.

  
Castiel turned to looked at him for a second, tilting his head to the side as he did. “I am... 20. My birthday is on July 8th.”

  
Dean nodded, before it hit him. _'That was two days ago, Cas. You're officially 21.'_ He laughed, and Castiel did give him a small smile as he learned that his own birthday passed him by without him noticing. It was hard to keep track of days when you were in one place all the time, and time either flew or dragged on, like a heavy block around your ankles as your fought to reach another day. _'Happy birthday.'_

  
“Thank you,” Castiel responded earnestly, as he stopped in front of a door, and they stared at one another again in silence. Dean opened the door and held it open for Castiel, who smiled and walked in, careful not to make physical contact. If Dean noticed, he didn't say anything, just following the dark-haired kid inside. Kid. He looked like a kid to Dean, and was shorter than Dean. Yes, Castiel, older by a year he may be, was a kid in Dean's book. And kids needed to be protected at all costs, especially because he'd failed to protect- Dean inhaled sharply at the thought, shaking his head to clear it.

  
Castiel had taken a seat in the corner of the room, wrapping his too-big trench-coat tighter around himself as he seemed to withdrawn into himself. Dean's hair pricked up as he noticed the people eyeing him like he was an outsider, and with no one by his side anymore, he was alone and frozen. They saw, he figured, they the corruption inside of him. He didn't know how, but his stomach continued sinking as he realized that he couldn't even hide his freakishness from crazy people. Fuck, he cursed himself internally, consumed by fear and self-loathing.

  
The door clicked open behind him, and he turned to see a shorter man with dark stubble and haughty eyes. “Dean Winchester,” he drawled, raising a brow at him. “I'm sure it'd be more comfortable in a seat than standing, no?” He didn't wait for an answer, and instead walked to the front of the group, in front of the white board. There was a list on the right, with patients' names and their needs or wants beside it, and the man wrote in Dean's name on a blank space at the bottom.

  
Then, he turned to the middle of the board and erased the name Charlie beside the label Coach, and put in Crowley instead. “I am Crowley, most of you know me by now.” Dean slowly found his way onto one of the blue plastic blocks that was supposed to be a seat. The ground would be kinder on his body, he thought sarcastically as he shifted to find a comfortable position. “I am your coach for the day, so let's just get on with it, shall we?”

  
There was a small murmur of voices that didn't disagree nor really care, and Crowley merely rolled his eyes. “Tough crowd. Alright, what are the three R's?”

  
“Respect yourself,” Benny responded immediately, knowing this whole song and dance routine by now.

  
Crowley nodded in affirmation. “Yes, _and_?”

  
Another girl spoke up, with red hair and a cat-like face. “Respect others.” Crowley made another sound of pleased confirmation. There was an awkward silence that followed, mainly because Castiel didn't step up to answer even as Crowley stared right at him.

  
“And respect the environment,” another man cut in, one with a sharp jawline and a hoodie over his white shirt.

  
“Thank you, Gadreel, I'm glad _someone_ was willing to answer me. It feels like talking to myself in here.” Crowley then moved onto the lesson, which today, was about triggers and recognizing them before they turned into episodes. Dean found that he couldn't focus on the lesson, eyes wandering around the entire group, leg bouncing up and down as he fiddled with a pencil, trying to hold back the energy that was threatening to tear him open.

  
He could hear the screams in his head, distant echoes of a memory long past, one that had fire and signaled the end of a childhood. As Dean ran out the door with his baby brother in his arms, a baby that depended on him to survive, he didn't know how drastically things would change. He didn't expect John to stop acting like a father to him, didn't expect that he'd have to take the bullet for Sam again and again, and didn't expect Sam to _leave_ him _with_ their Dad after everything he'd done to keep thim safe _from_ their Dad. He didn't expect to end up so broken and twisted, angry at the world and hardened... just like Dad. “Fuck,” he mouthed as he stood, needing to do something other than sit and listen to some bastard that didn't know what it was like to want- to need- to destroy like he'd been destroyed. His chest kept tightening, heart pounding in his ears as his wrists almost ached with the need to move, to break something..

  
“Dean, is there something you need?” Crowley asked, a challenge in his eyes as he stopped in the middle of the lesson. _Lesson_ , he wanted to spit at Crowley's feet, _this isn't a damn lesson_. They were in a nuthouse, this was nothing more than something to kill their time and make the damn doctors feel useful. Dean stood to full height, which was still taller than Crowley, even if he was thin and not all that buff. “ _Well_?”

  
The rope that was tightening around his wrists and chest snapped, and he punched the wall, screams tearing themselves out of his throat, ripping them to ribbons of red. Castiel watched Dean as he broke a cabinet door in two, screaming like a trapped animal, and cocked his head as he did. He turned to face Meg, who had pulled out her radio and was calling in the security to restrain Dean. “No!” he rushed over to Dean, wrapping his arms around the younger man from behind him. “Dean! Calm down, it's me, it's Castiel, everything's okay.”

  
He continued reassuring the younger man that writhed in his arms, before Dean slowly realized that he was being held and became limp, melting into Castiel's arms. “It's okay, Dean,” Castiel breathed as the security rushed in, and closed his eyes as he gave himself up willingly. Dean's anxious, yet thankful eyes stared into his, silent, as they led him away. “It's okay.” Dean looked like a lost child whose comfort blanket had just been ripped away, eyes searching for an answer. Castiel knew what awaited him, but it didn't make it any easier to submit to being restrained like an animal in spite of only wanting to help someone they'd failed to calm down.

  
“Castiel, I thought we'd made it clear you are not to step in and interrupt our procedure?” Naomi tutted from above him, eyes boring into his as he simply stared back at the bitch. “You always do this, so we're going to increase the time in restraints and seclusion to 72 hours, bar mealtimes and bathroom breaks.”

  
Castiel turned his head away, hearing the clicking of her flat shoes against the hardwood floors as it faded away. 3 days, with his wrists and ankles bound, alone in the room with nothing to keep his mind from wandering to the dark abyss and returning with only pain and more scars to add to the tapestry. He knew there was no reason to be restrained, he hadn't done anything wrong, not really. He _helped_ Dean. He helped someone. It was with that thought that he tried to keep himself going, if only to see if Dean was okay.

  
_Dean._ What was it about the new patient that had Castiel wanted to protect him, needing to stand by his side as if it were gravity? It was a silent pull that Castiel felt when the fair-haired teenager with green eyes and friendly eyes that had made Castiel jump up to embrace him. If it hadn't worked, then Castiel would have done nothing but humiliate himself and made Dean uncomfortable. But it had, and that had to mean _something_. Castiel sighed, shaking his head, because it didn't mean anything, it was just random chance that the screaming boy had been snapped out of his rage.

  
A fat body suddenly squeezing the life out of you can do that. Tears wanted to fall, even if Castiel didn't understand why, but for some reason, he just longed for someone to come and make him feel human again. He'd been in this hell for about a year now, breathing in the artificial smells of alcohol and dusty air-conditioning, nothing to make him feel human or alive. Humans need other humans, for interaction and emotional bonds, something that Castiel hadn't had with someone other than his doctors and therapists for 10 months.

  
With a shuddering breath, he closed his burning eyes, swallowing the lump that spread to his chest and felt heavy like the darkness was embracing him. “I am so stupid,” he whispered to himself hatefully, and let out his breath. He had no energy left to sob and cry, like he'd done for the first two thirds of his stay, and now, he was just empty. He had nothing left to give. “Father? I have one thing I'd like to ask for from you. I just wanted to ask, that please... please,” Castiel stopped to take in another breath as he repeated the prayer he'd used to say when he was just getting used to the ward. A prayer he'd refused to say for 10 months, after... Jimmy. “Please deliver the haunted souls of the ones that reside in these walls. Help them, even if you don't want to help me. That's okay, I deserve that. But there's hope for them, they deserve to be saved,” he said with a certainty he didn't have for himself.

  
Castiel didn't see the man that laid on the other side of the wall, hearing his fervent prayer through the thin walls. Dean stared at the wall that Castiel's voice came from, and felt his chest ache with the knowledge that he'd been responsible for Castiel being in the shoes he was in now. “I'm sorry, Cas,” he whispered, voice raspy from years of disuse and screaming. “There's hope for you, too. I can _see_ it.”

  
But Castiel didn't hear Dean's quiet reply, and simply let a tear fall from his eye as his breathing evened out. A tormented soul trying to find respite in sleep that held nothing but nightmares and bland memories of the same walls he'd been staring at for a year. It wasn't even noon yet, but they were alone, and were obviously meant to stay that way for some time. Dean had been given a sentence of 36 hours, and only hoped that when he got out, Castiel would be waiting for him.

  
“Dammit,” Dean cursed at himself, the guilt feeling like a knife twisting in his gut. It was worse than the anger or the agitation that had him lashing out earlier, and now, there was nobody there to comfort him. Because the person that did earlier was in another room restrained and maybe sedated or worse, because of him. He'd gotten hurt like everyone else that walked into Dean's life. _Like Sam, like Dad, like Adam, like Mom, like Lisa._ And now, he was spreading that pain over to Cas. The nurse outside of his door didn't do anything to calm him down, because he knew he was being assessed and analyzed for signs of being dangerous.

  
He continued to suffer in confinement for the rest of the day, mind going almost numb from all the thoughts that were supposed to painful, but weren't. It was like being hit with ice-cold water in a shower for the first time, and initially thinking it's hot as your body adjusts to the shock. It hurt so much it stopped hurting at all. Desensitization could do wonders at times, as his father had taught him from a young age.


	2. Meet Me Between Here and Hope

Dean Winchester has officially felt what it was like to be bored to _death_  as he paced around in the small cell of a room. Sighing as he looked around for a clock in spite of knowing there was nothing but bare, teal walls that contained a bed, he wanted to scream. One more hour, they'd told him. One more hour and he'd be out of the damned room. He'd slept through most of the last day, leaving him filled with nervous energy now, and he wanted nothing more than to be let _out_. His actual time in restraints lasted less than 12 hours, because that was the longest amount of time they'd allowed for a first-offender like him.

Knowing they were watching him from beyond the window, he could only grit his teeth and turn away, needing to pass their little 'inspection' of his mental state. Damn bastards didn't care about their patients, especially not that Crowley douchebag, who'd been the main one to write the papers deciding it was necessary. He'd get back at him some other time, but for now, he had to keep himself from running up walls so that he could get _out_ of the walls. “Dammit,” he breathed, bouncing his legs as he stared up out the window that showed him nothing but a bare hallway.

He wanted to pound on the door and demand answers, but at the same time was dreading to be let out at the same time, pulling his stomach from side to side. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, and focused on breathing and calming down the blocks of energy that rattled inside of him, like the legos he'd jammed into his Dad's Impala. Dean scoffed. Dad really went to town on him for that one. He could only lay in bed for a day, leaving Sam to bring him some food. He was only 8, and Sam was 4, tiny hands shaking as they tried to carry him a bowl of cup noodles he'd seen Bobby bring Dean when Dean was sick.

He never messed with Dad's car again. Hell, he'd bordered on _worshiping_ the car, and named it Baby when it was passed down to him. It was always his escape from everything, and held his warmer memories of life with Dad, where he would be sober and take his two boys out someplace. They moved constantly, with no given reason other than the fact that Dad 'felt trapped' in their current living place. Dean knew that his Dad was doing something illegal when he was younger, he just didn't expect his Dad to be... _that bad_.

While they were in the car though, everything was good, because their Dad was busy on the road and that meant he was safe, and Sammy was safe. They stopped at different zoos, museums, and parks sometimes, if their Dad was in a good mood. If Sam asked, that is, and he would say yes. Dean didn't bother asking, and their Dad never bothered answering his looks of pleading anyway. He'd say “use your words, Dean, you're not a baby.”

Dean never spoke, and never did he ask for anything so long as he could help it. Sammy was the exception, he was always the exception. And now, he was... Dean let out a breath as he opened his eyes, just in time to see the door to the room being pushed open by Dave, who gave him a kind half-smile, as he waved. “Hey, Dean, are things alright?” Dean nodded at the question of one of his favorite male nurses. “Awesomesauce. Come on, let's get you outta this room, can't be too nice being confined for a day in here.”

Dean jumped and almost _skipped_ out of the room, half-considering to drop to his knees, kiss the floor and sing _Hallelujah_. Snorting at the thought of him being dragged away again just seconds after being released, he anxiously filed behind Dave, whom led him right to the kitchen. Dropping Dean's notepad on the table before making sure that Dean knew about where it was, he smiled and walked away. After getting his tray- which had something that Dean refused to believe was skinless chicken breast, it looked like strips of Angel wings- he sat and waited.

He didn't stop waiting even in the day room, as a bald man named Uriel taught them about radical acceptance of painful situations. He didn't stop when doctors came to pull him from the program and talk to him. Well, more like talk _at_ him, and he would write half-hearted answers back. They didn't answer where Castiel was, and upon seeing him bristle in a quickly approaching rage, they backtracked and told him to wait a couple of days.

As they offered him a laminated communication board again, telling him that because it's been years since he'd last used speech he needed it, he felt something clench inside of him. He'd downright refused every single time they'd offered and forced him to take it, but for some reason, he found himself taking it into his hand. It wasn't childish, like he'd expected, no pictures like they'd offered once. His fingers traced along the somewhat sharp edge of the board, looking over at it. It was covered in simple one-word answers or requests like “yes”, “no”, “bathroom”, and “food”. A black marker came with it, so he could write something specific down onto the blank area on the back.

“Thank you for working with us, Dean,” Dr. Harvelle said to him, and he gave a hesitant smile. Maybe they _could_ help him speak again, even if just thinking about using his voice made his hands shake. “If this doesn't work out, the next step is learning sign language, which, while hard, isn't impossible and is highly effective on top of useful.”

Dean nodded again, smiling at the words that begged to be used, and he placed the board back onto the table. He pointed at the words printed “thank you” and Ellen gave a proud smile, nodding. “I will see you tomorrow, probably around 5, so don't end up in straps again.” Excited, Dean grabbed the board into his hands, walking out of the little office and waiting for Ellen to let him back into the actual Psych Ward itself. He was still within the first big-door, trapped, but it was the Bubble, as they called it.

They'd pat you down here when you first step inside, have therapy sessions, or family visits, and nobody was here without a professional there to make sure there was nothing going wrong. It was the simple porch to the beautiful mansion filled with haunted screams and desolation. Once he was let in, he found himself wandering back to his room, and for some reason, the nurses he'd passed allowed him to wander down to his own room. He heard Naomi tell Samandriel to “let him, Dr. Harvelle's orders.”

Once he'd found his room, he sat down and let the board's layout sink into his mind. He would point at this word or that, silently imagining the communication gap being sewed shut with a simple piece of paper. _I'd be able to ask Cas if he's okay without having to spend time writing it,_ Dean thought, and vaguely wondered when he started to care about communicating with Castiel. Perhaps when Castiel threw himself under the bus for Dean, and Dean took a shuddering breath at the memory of having strong arms embrace him.

He hadn't been held like that since he was a child, or touched in a vaguely kind way since Sam left about 5 years ago. Sex was different, of course, but those didn't make him feel warm in the coldest place on Earth. Why would Castiel, a fellow patient, jump up and hold him back from breaking his fists against the walls? Although Dean hadn't been at the place long, he knew it wasn't something uncommon, and it sure seemed that the other patients didn't care and weren't bothered by it. Was it just the kindness in Castiel that had him rush to help Dean?

 _It was nothing,_ decided Dean, focusing on the board again. There was a “hello” and a “goodbye”, and Dean almost wanted to add a “fuck off” as he remembered Crowley. Yes, he would definitely have more than a few words to say to the pompous dick. However, he knew that outright disrespect could be interpreted and analyzed to make him seem even crazier than they already thought him to be. _Fuck them._

Dean hesitantly decided against the idea. For the first time, he actually managed to control his impulses, telling himself that it would only be until he sees Castiel, alive and healthy, and then he could slug Crowley. With every passing hour in the man's presence though, and every second that Dean knew Castiel wasn't there, the urge grew until he had to flag down a nurse and point at the word “trigger” on the board.

She didn't say anything else before leading him away, to the Sensory Room, a room meant to calm down the patients, and it was used for therapy as well. _'Thank you,'_ Dean said to her, and she gave a smile that hardly reached her eyes, before turning and closing the room behind her. There were different-colored mats that covered the entire floor, as well as different types of swings and therapy items.

He took a seat on the weird fabric swing that hugged his body, and mindlessly rocked around, pressing his blue robes tighter around his middle as he completely shut down. _It was my fault_ , he started on the same mental road that he'd been going at since he was first thrown onto a bed. Guilt and self-loathing was a near constant in his life when nothing else was constant. Closing his eyes as he thought about everything, his chest ached. He missed Sammy in moments when there was nothing left to occupy his mind, when the silence was there glaring at him, a space that should have been filled with his kid brother's voice.

Over the last few months that he'd spent with Dean, he'd just gotten angrier and angrier. He didn't like how things were going, hated his life and Dean's life and how life had been kicking them in the teeth for so long and Dean didn't do anything. He finally realized that Dean was just a weak human, one that wouldn't do anything but drag him down as well. _Gods, those months were painful,_ Dean could see it all playing out in his mind.

He let out a shaky breath and opened his eyes, bright lights assaulting his eyes and the colors seeming to be too bright. Nevertheless he stood up and walked around, cracking his shoulders as he found himself sinking down onto the mats, dragging a bowl of water beads over and letting the slippery beads slide through his fingers. His eyes wandered to look at the pillar of bubbling water, and remembered the time he and Sam had went swimming.

He missed Sam, missed how Sam would talk his ears off about this book or that, Sam's messy hair he'd cut once in his sleep, Sam's awkward way with girls, everything. He missed _Sam_ , he missed his _brother_. He missed knowing where he belonged, what his purpose was- which was to protect and care for Sam- and he missed being able to say that he had one person he could rely on. He even missed their arguments.

Arguments. Fighting. There was so much of it towards the end. Dean had no idea that those few months, maybe longer, were going to be his last good ones. _Relatively._ Dean huffed, looking around again in distaste. Being with an angry Sam was better than being with no Sam at all. “Sammy,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he remembered just how something great could be corrupted so easily.

Sam didn't like the way John treated Dean, _“come on, Dad, you can't keep doing this,”_ he had spat at John. That was how it started, a stupid argument that escalated and turned heated and filled with rage.

John was particularly cruel during those months. Dean could still feel Sam's hand in his when Sam had sat down on the bed, taking his hand and begging him to leave with him. _“We can't stay with him, Dean. We can't live like this.”_ He had mindlessly refused and the anger shifted to include him. After that it just felt like Sam was always angry about something. Like he was just waiting for John or Dean to say something so he could jump in and get mad.

Human rights, Mary, homophobia, the stupid Impala, Adam, abuse, drinking, mental health, talking about emotions. Anything he could use to start an argument, he did, and what can you say, he was a lawyer at heart. He could make everything he said sound like truth even if he claimed the sky was red. And if John hated anything, it was being wrong. And when he couldn't switch everything around, he would embed his counterargument into Dean's skin and soul. They were both just so angry. Sam was the sun, and John was his magnifying glass.

It was so terrifyingly clear in hindsight as the loving, caring kid he'd raised and grew up protecting started to get angrier and colder. His fights with John would bleed to become fights with Dean, and his words would get sharper and harsher because he never knew or seemed to realize he'd won a long time ago. Never realized that Dean was being crushed to the ground with every word from him. Dean could never shake off Sam's words like he did John's words. If John's words hurt him, Sam's words destroyed him.

Sam and John were like fuel and fire to one another, but ultimately it was Dean that ended up being burned. When Sam called John abusive, Dean would relearn every definition and interpretation of abuse. When Sam yelled that he wanted to leave and that he hated John, John would always turn and blame it all on Dean. When John called Sam ungrateful and scream _"I should have left you in that fire!"_ as a low-blow attempt to hurt Sam, he would turn to Dean with hurting eyes and shout the motel room down.

_Why don't you fight back for yourself?_

_This isn't right, I can't live like this, Dean!_

_Stand up for yourself!_

_Stop letting him treat you like crap! He'll kill you if we don't leave!_

_You're weak, Dean, and I can't live like this anymore. I refuse to set myself on fire to keep you warm._

Sam's last words echoed in Dean's mind, leaving his mouth dry and his chest heavy. He did leave that day, he'd grabbed his bag that he'd already packed some time ago and turned his betrayed but determined eyes away from Dean. Dean stared at the door until the tears dried out and he couldn't do anything but keep staring. He couldn't keep himself from wondering when “we” became “I” for Sammy.

Sam's anger hurt more than anything, and burnt a hole right through his soul. When Dean was forced to drink by John, Sam would yell at him. When Dean would get beaten like a punching bag, Sam would yell at him. When Dean couldn't even move a muscle, Sam would yell at him. When Dean would do anything, Sam would yell at him. And Dean would yell back.

 _“How dare you!” Dean spat back at Sam, spinning to face him. “How dare you be mad? I'm the one getting my ass kicked, Sam, I'm the one that takes all the shit. You don't_ get _to be angry, you're not the one that doesn't know if they're going to survive until morning or not!”_

Sam was just so fucking mad at the world that orphaned them, at John for being abusive to Dean, at Dean for taking it, and at himself for being helpless to stop it. So he left, and he never looked back. And he left Dean with John, the one Dean worked so hard to protect Sam from all his life. And in doing so he'd completely broken Dean in a way that nothing else did. Not Mary's death, not Adam, not Dad's fists or Alastair's cruel tortures. No, in the end, it wasn't hatred that broke Dean. It was love.

With another shuddering breath, Dean realized that his anxiety had eased to become nothing but internal pain. He didn't want to lash out, just wanted to cave in and sink to the ground to never stand again. Three knocks on the door snapped Dean out of his melancholy exhaustion, and he looked up from where his forehead touched his knees as Jo walked in. “You have a visitor, Dean, come on, I'll bring you to him.”

Without another word- well, a written response- Dean followed numbly. There was only one person it could be, and he both looked forward to and feared the little meeting with him. Jo opened the door for him and closed it behind him, as Dean stared at the ground, hands clasped behind his back. “Well, have a seat, boy. I didn't drive across the country to stare at you stare at the ground,” grumbled the older man. Dean sunk into the seat across from him, refusing to meet his eyes, and Bobby sighed. “Look at me, Dean,” said he, much softer this time, and Dean was helpless to do anything but obey. “It's going to be alright, you'll be here for a few months, more or less.”

Dean nodded, staring at his communication board. So many words at his fingers, yet no drive to speak all of a sudden. But he had to answer, for respect if nothing else, so he forced his muscles and pointed at “okay”. Bobby saw and nodded, looking sadder than Dean had ever seen him. Now that Dean was looking, Bobby looked downright torn up inside, in spite of his gruff and unfeeling exterior. His hands moved to point at “I'm sorry” before he thought it through.

“I'm sorry...” Bobby repeated, a tone of incredulity in his voice. “You get a board with new shiny words to use and you go with 'I'm sorry'? You don't need to apologize, son. How are things, how are they in here? I saw a real nasty guy on my way here, all black suits and dark smiles, think his name is Crowley.”

Dean looked up with a wry smile at Bobby, raising a brow at him. Bobby rolled his eyes, looking away. He picked up his black marker and flipped the board over. _'I had an episode. A guy stepped in, Cas he helped me calm down. Then we both ended up in restraints, except he hasn't gotten out yet.'_

Bobby silently read the message, lips moving as he did, and gave a shake of his head at the end of it. “You idjit,” he let out a breathy laugh. “How did he calm you down, so I know when you come over?”

Dean felt his face heat up, creeping down to his chest and up to his ears, and Bobby suspiciously looked at him as he struggled to think of a way to phrase it that didn't strip him of his masculinity. _'Well, it was,'_ Dean crossed that out, trying again. _'He wrapped his arms around around me, and told me that everything was okay. He... uh, comforted me,'_ Dean's writing slowly sloped off. As Bobby read, Dean's face felt like Satan had spat on it.

“You're kidding me,” Bobby finally commented. “Well, don't expect some of the more touchy-sensual stuff, it ain't happening.”

_'It wasn't like that!'_

“Oh and I'm fucking Dumbledore. Get your head out of your ass, Dean, I don't care about your preferences in bed so long as you don't demonstrate them in front of me.” Bobby rubbed his beard at the unpleasant thought of Dean doing so. “I'm not like John, so spill: what's this Castiel like?”

Dean stared at the board for a second, tapping the marker on the table as he did. _'Blue eyes, black hair. He's nice, he's been in here for a while now, I think. I dunno, he's just... nice. I don't know why he did that.'_

Bobby sighed, uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Well, be careful, you never know in a place like this.” So they continued talking about everything else. Bobby's auto repair shop was still going strong, and although his wife, Karen, was a bit ill, she was doing pretty well. The Campbell's had said that Sam was doing well in school, could get a scholarship for college is he continued to keep his grades like they were: all A's and B's. After an hour of talking about everything and nothing, a woman came in to tell them that visiting hours was over, and ushered them both to either sides of the big doors.

By the time Castiel was finally let out, around lunch of Dean's 7th day, Dean's nerves felt raw and strung out. He sat at the empty table at the end, when Castiel was ushered in by Meg with an arm on his shoulder, as if he was no more than a lifeless puppet being steered. Breath shaky, Dean picked up his board, and as Castiel was seated across from him, he slid it over. Blank eyes silently stared at his words that he'd written and erased more times than he'd cared to count, and Dean was torn between sobbing in shame, hugging Castiel close, and breaking another cupboard door. Instead, he settled for resting a hand on Castiel's sleeve.

_'Dear ~~Cassteil~~ Cas,_

_Thanks for doing what you did, buddy, I really appreciate it. Real kind of you, real selfless. A true act of kindness. I'm sorry for getting you in trouble, I didn't mean to, believe me. Please, forgive me, it was a stupid thing for me to do, and I hope you're okay. If you need something, just tell me. I'd love to be your friend and someone you could depend on in here._

_Signed,_

_Dean Winchester AKA Coolest Guy Here'_

“Hello to you too, Dean. I would love to be your friend,” Castiel responded, a weary smile on his face that hardly reached his dulled eyes, his throat scratchy as he spoke, but there was a hopeful touch to it, authentic and open.

Meg turned to face Castiel, mouth opening in shock as she tried to school her features back to her snarky mask, and the nurses around them also snapped their necks to look at them. Dean, however, did not notice, and only beamed at Castiel, before clapping a hand on Castiel's shoulder. For a moment, there was nothing around them, no teal walls, no nurses, no psych ward, just two men and a touch that seemed to ground the two of them while also filling them with a tingling warmth that overpowered the breeze of the air conditioning. _'Thank you.'_

The nurses started to whisper, until Dr. Harvelle was called and stared at Dean, the broken man that somehow helped a shattered Castiel. Dean Winchester, a mute and hardened man with nothing but darkness in his past, broken by the world in ways that most people could never understand. Castiel Novak, a man that's become almost like a permanent shadow in the psychiatric ward, orphaned by what seemed like the world, leaving him with nothing to act as an anchor.

“It's a miracle,” Gadreel whispered to Benny. Dr. Harvelle heard, and she nodded, smiling, before turning and walking away, signaling for the nurses to do the same. “Since Jimmy Novak, he has not been the same. Perhaps this will be his salvation.”

“Jimmy?” Benny asked, not understanding as he looked to face Gadreel.

“Yes, Castiel's twin. He died around Castiel's second month,” Gadreel explained, running his hand through his hair. “He was very different from Castiel, much more animated and lively than Castiel. He wasn't a patient, though, he was never admitted, so my knowledge of him only comes from his visits.”

“How did he die?” Benny whispered, knowing that these types of conversations were punishable with seclusion when heard by the staff for being a 'triggering' topic.

Gadreel sighed, shaking his head and looking away. Dean and Castiel were staring at one another, and Castiel would also look at the board and see what type of words there were for Dean to use now, analyzing it. “He was killed in a car crash, but Castiel somehow knew of it the moment it happened. He was praying in the garden, before he suddenly stands, faces Meg, and tells her “Jimmy is gone” then locks himself into his room for a week to mourn Jimmy's death.”

Benny shook his head, a small shocked smile on his face that was empty and sorrowful as he looked at Castiel again. _Maybe he isn't all crazy_ , Benny thought, but shook his head again. “He's a weird fella, isn't he?” No response came, and none needed to come, for there was no denying that fact.

“How long were you in restraints?” Castiel asked Dean, who took the marker back up to respond.

' _7 hours in restraints, about a day in isolation,_ ' Dean wrote back, trying to remember when there really was nothing to tell the time. He was restrained on his first day, stayed in there until his third day, then waited four days for Cas to get back. He thinks, anyway, there was no way of being sure.

“Ah, not so severe, then. I got 72 hours in restraints, then a few days spent in my room,” Castiel told Dean, who then wondered what _severe_ meant in terms of restraints. “Which wing is your room in? I am in the C-Wing.”

 _'C-Wing? That's the off-limits one, right?'_ Dean hesitantly asked, looking at Castiel awkwardly as he smiled anyway. Cas was in no way crazy, Dean refused to believe it. Someone so divine and pure couldn't be nutters like the doctors believed.

Castiel sighed, nodding as he ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, it's the wing for the ones that need more... assistance at times. I cannot deny that I've been anything short of a mess for a long time now.” Castiel looked away, and Dean placed his hand on Castiel's trench coat to silently assure him, a small act of comfort. “I've also been here for a long time, they usually place us long-term patients there for convenience. It was quite boring here before you came and livened things up a bit.”

 _'Yeah, I'm sure losing my shit is real exciting, Cas._ ' Dean snorted, shaking his head as he smiled. _'I'm in the B-Wing.'_

“Your way with words is poetry, Dean. You should consider it as a career option,” Castiel gave a small smile at Dean, who shook his head as he fought to keep a straight face. They simply stared at each other then, and the chatter of patients talking, the sounds of trays clattering against the metal container, and the crackling of the faulty light bulb above them seemed to fade away once more.

Something shifted in Dean's expression as he remembered something. Dean let out a breath, hoping for once that he could say something, push something other than air from his lips, but nothing came. Instead, he pulled the marker up again, and wrote something there. _'You deserve to be saved'_   was what Castiel read, and a choked noise caught between a sob and a laugh forced itself from his throat as his eyes watered and his hand shook. He shook his head, but Dean nodded, trying to convey his genuine and firm belief in this with his eyes.

Castiel searched his face as if for a lie, but found none, and merely pursed his lips as he tried to calm his breathing. Everything felt shaky, as if he had a million bees swirling inside of his head and chest, his heart pounding in his ears. _No, I don't, Dean. Not after everything,_ he mentally told Dean, but that wasn't the answer Dean wanted, even _he_ knew that. He had no idea what to say, how to respond, but a simple “thank you, Dean” was what left his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered again, looking at Dean almost reverently.

He closed his eyes, and Dean squeezed his arm, pulling him back from that ocean in his mind. He didn't believe Dean could save him, but _by God_ did he want to throw himself at salvation and be pulled from the darkness. He just wanted, he wanted- He didn't know what it was he wanted, but he knew that there was something he wanted, deep within his soul. Perhaps Dean would help him find what it was he wanted.

 


End file.
